


in the nook of a cousin universe

by amillionsmiles



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blade of Marmora AU, Kimi no Na wa AU, M/M, Memory Loss, Time Travel, body swapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 01:59:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11887530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: It was hard because you were so far away.On a distant rock floating through space, Keith waits for the first comet to strike.On Earth, Takashi Shirogane angles the rocket toward the sky.





	in the nook of a cousin universe

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you thank you thank you to those of you in the Sheith server who made this possible :) This one's for you <3
> 
>  **notes:** this is a kimi no na wa AU! so once again, things are a little trippy with tenses and time, but stick it through—I promise everything will come together at the end ;) 
> 
> title and epitaphs taken from [Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem](http://www.pa56.org/ross/hicok.htm) by Bob Hicok, which is one of my favorite love poems ever.

_Here I have_  
_two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back_  
_to rest my cheek against,  
_ _your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish_

_._

_._

_._

_“Don’t go.”_

It’s not a voice he recognizes.  Too rough to be Matt’s.  The silhouette draws closer, shadowy fingers curled around chain-link, rattling— _“Listen to me, if you go, you’ll—_ ”

_BEEP BEEP BEEP_

Shiro sits upright, years of standing at attention ingrained in every muscle, his sheets a tangled mess around his waist.  The bedside clock reads 6:00 AM precisely; he latches onto the digital numbers’ familiar glow, breathing slowly to calm his racing heart.

 _Just a dream._   One that he never seems to reach the end of.  On bad days, his mind fills in the gaps _—“if you go you’ll **die** ”—_but those are just the irrational pre-flight jitters talking.  The engineers have run their diagnostics thousands of times, and he practically lives and breathes the simulations these days.  _“Don’t go,”_ the phantom figure always pleads, but it doesn’t understand that Shiro’s wanted this for _years,_ has practiced and planned and poured more cups of coffee than he can count, all so he can be the one angling that rocket nose toward the sky.

42 days until the Kerberos launch.

He reaches for the pendant around his neck, the cold, polished stone warmed by the enveloping heat of his palm.  Squeezes it once, for reassurance.

_Everything will be just fine._

 

*

 

Keith was going to have a hard time getting all this Weblum gunk out of his suit later.

“Next time, _you’re_ on harvesting duty,” he told Antok, wincing at the squelching sound his gloves made when he flexed them. 

Antok laughed—a short, barking noise.  “Sure, if you can beat me in a blade fight.”

“Ass,” muttered Keith, the bag of collected scaultrite clinking as he nudged it with his foot, but a smile threatened the corners of his mouth.  “One of these days I _will_ , I swear.”

“I look forward to it.” 

Through the windows, the starscape passed by, and Keith drank in the sight: the blue-green glow of a xanthorium crystal cluster, the wispy purples and reds of a dispersing nebula.  Gathering scaultrite wasn’t the most glamorous of missions, but any chance to get off-base was a welcome one.  Ulaz had recently left for one of the prison bays—the Empire needed doctors, it seemed, to make sure its laborers lived long enough to work—and Thace had long since gone deep undercover at Zarkon’s Central Command.  Keith itched to join them, but his physiology made him a poor spy.  Galra enough to awaken his blade, but not Galra enough to _look_ the part; and so he was left to this and the occasional supply ship hit, if Kolivan was feeling generous.

_One of these days…_

“Do you ever think about what you’d be doing,” started Keith, “if there weren’t a war?”

Antok’s masked face shifted toward him, head tilted in careful appraisal.  “No.  I was born into this fight—I’m not sure I’d recognize anything else.”

“I wasn’t.”

Keith didn’t often speak of his human heritage—he wore it plainly enough on his face.  And he had hardly any recollections of Earth, besides red sands and the silver spill of moonlight, so unlike the constantly burning sky surrounding the Blade’s base.  Once upon a time, he might have hesitated to share such thoughts, but Antok was just as much _brother_ as he was _brother-in-arms_ , and part of strength, Keith had learned, was in knowing around whom you could be vulnerable.

Antok was silent: the cue for Keith to continue.

“I’ve just been wondering more, lately, about how things would be different if my mom had left me on Earth—if I’d grown up not knowing any of this is happening.”

_Was a war still a war if nobody else—not even your enemy—knew you were fighting?_

“Knowledge or death,” said Antok.  “Better to meet it on your feet and with a knife in your hands, to know it’s coming, instead of being wiped from existence by your ignorance.”

“It’s remained unconquered for 10,000 years,” Keith pointed out.

Antok scoffed.  “Only because Zarkon hasn’t set his sights on it yet.  And we will do our best to keep it that way, but it will be a steep fight.  Besides,” and they were back to their usual banter, “you wouldn’t have lasted long as an Earthling anyways.”

“Says who?”

“You have too much of the Galra temper in you.  I am told humans are…softer.  Milder.”

Keith snorted.  “I don’t think my mom fell for _soft._ ”

“You’d be surprised.  The heart is its own warrior; no one can predict to whom it will yield.”

They’d been drifting for a while, now.  Antok turned their pod around, briefly, and Keith caught sight of the Weblum they’d left behind, its engorged length nothing but a distant coil as a beam erupted from its mouth, splintering the dead planet in front of it apart.  In his head, it broke with great pomp and circumstance, but in space the sound didn’t travel, and so Keith and Antok watched as the planet was devoured quietly, there and then gone.  It was sobering, but also reassuring, in a way—the knowledge that all things, no matter their scale, would eventually end.    

Antok brought a hand to his chest and bent his head, a silent prayer on his lips.  The Marmorans were not worshipful people, but they believed in the power of a good death.  To bear witness to a planet’s passage, its lifeless carcass still capable of nourishing something else—that was cause for celebration.  The omen of a good start. So Keith bent his head, too, and made a wish:

_Help me bring us closer to the end of this war._

*

 

Breakfast is the usual: oatmeal, sausage, and a single hardboiled egg. 

What’s _un_ usual is the look Matt gives when he slides into the seat across from him—weirdly focused, as if Shiro is a newly discovered specimen.

“You’re back to normal,” Matt observes, adjusting his glasses.

Shiro frowns, a piece of eggshell still pinched between his fingers.  “What?”

Matt leans in.  “Yeah, as in _what_ was up with you yesterday?  Untucked uniform, messy hair, late to the one class you’re supposed to train—”

“Shiro!  Iverson wants to see you,” Harry interjects, clapping him on the back.

An uneasy feeling settles over him as Shiro checks his watch.  Twenty minutes before he has to fly the sim.

“In his office?” he asks, already dreading the answer.

“In his office,” Harry confirms.

Shiro nods, reaching for his coffee and taking a giant swig.   

If what Matt says about yesterday is true…

This can’t be good.

*

 

“You asked for me?”

The door clicks shut behind him.  Shiro moves in front of the commander’s desk, _hands clasped behind your back, elbows out at either side, chin up, look straight ahead—_

“At ease, officer.”  Iverson sets his papers aside, eyes roving over Shiro’s face.  Then: “Tell me, Shirogane, have you been getting enough sleep?”

Shiro blinks.  “I…I believe so, sir.”

“Because yesterday,” Iverson continues, “I was put in the strange position of having to give one of my best pupils a demerit for both sloppiness _and_ tardiness.  Not to mention the fact that you seemed to briefly forget your own name, and then what happened in the sim—”

Shiro’s stomach lurches.  “I crashed the sim?”

Iverson levels him with a strange look.  “No, but you did seem to have some difficulties with the control panel at first.  And the flight maneuvers you pulled weren’t your usual style.  Much flashier, and more reckless than I’m used to seeing from you—” The commander breaks off, heavy eyebrows knitting together.  “Shirogane, are you trying to tell me that you don’t remember _any_ of this?”

“Unfortunately not, sir.”

His admission hangs heavy in the silence between them.

Finally, Iverson decides, “I want you to take the day off.”

“But sir—”

“No buts, Shirogane.  You’re one of my best, and you’re too responsible to hit the bottle, so the only explanation I can find for your recent behavior is fatigue.  You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, what with Kerberos coming up.”

“We launch in 35 days, sir; now’s hardly the time for me to be _relaxing_.”  

“You’re of no help to anyone if you’re not at your peak performance.”  Noting Shiro’s expression, Iverson’s face softens.  “This isn’t a punishment, Shiro.  Here at the Garrison, we look after each other.  You deserve a break.”

It’s rare for Iverson to shorten his name.  Shiro recognizes it for what it is, bowing his head.  “Thank you, sir.”

Numbly, he walks back through the corridors, racking his brain for any recollections of the other day.  Despite his efforts, his mind remains frustratingly blank; once he reaches his room, then, Shiro heads straight for his notebook, hoping things will make more sense if he lays them out neatly on a page.

Someone has beaten him to it.  Two lines, the handwriting not his own:

_Who are you?_

_What is this place?_

*

 

“Get up.”

Shiro does.  Or would, anyway, if not for the heavy pressure on his shoulder.  _What the—_

Gradually, his eyes adjust to the dim lighting.  A giant figure leans over him, broad-shouldered and burly, head shrouded by a dark cloak.  Three glowing purple dots arranged in a line, the largest one in the middle and two smaller ones on either side, fasten their beam upon him like a set of eerie eyes.  Shiro stifles a scream, mostly because this _thing_ could probably crush his windpipe in seconds if it wanted.  As it is, one of its hands—which feels more like a bear paw—currently rests on his shoulder, pinning him down.   

The creature—person?—draws closer, and even though Shiro can’t see its face, there’s something expectant to its posture.  Like it’s waiting for Shiro to _do_ something.

“You were supposed to meet me for training two vargas ago,” it says, gruff.  “Why are you still in bed?”

“I…” he swallows, throat dry. 

“You have ten doboshes to get ready,” it sniffs.  “And don’t expect me to go easy on you after yesterday, Keith.”

With that said, the figure eases back and leaves the room.  Shiro watches it go, eyes widening as he notices the whiplike shape trailing from beneath its cloak.

_Was that a tail?_

_And Keith?  Who is Keith?_

_What the hell is a dobosh?_

There’s a mirror in one corner of the room.  Shiro stumbles over to it, then does a double-take.

Dark eyes with an uncanny deep purple tint stare back at him. Jet black hair curls around his ears and against the nape of his neck—a bit long for his taste, but he supposes he can’t be picky about whatever dream-body his subconscious has decided to conjure up.  Slowly, Shiro reaches for one of the locks falling over his forehead and tugs.  An answering pain blooms in his scalp.

Huh.

_You’ve got this, Shiro._

_Just a dream._

 

*

 

It’s a lousy dream.

First, he nearly gets a heart attack from watching his face become swallowed up when he activates his suit.  And then he’s faced with navigating through a—castle? base?—that he knows nothing of, all to track down whomever he’s supposed to be training with.

It’s like nothing Shiro’s seen before: dark stone and eerie purple lights, cavernous halls that seem to swallow sound and then throw it right back at him, the clang of footsteps and metal ringing in his ears. 

But Shiro has little time to be awed before he stumbles into the training room, greeted promptly by a blade whistling past his head. 

 _“Jesus,_ ” he chokes.

“On your mark,” is the reply.

 

*

 

“You’re not yourself today,” his opponent says, after knocking him flat for the twentieth time.

Ribcage aching, Shiro groans and grits his teeth, rolling over onto his side.

He’s tired and crabby and just wants to _wake up, already._ Reading the frustration on his face, his partner sighs and offers a hand, helping him to his feet.

“Let’s check on transmissions, then.  Ulaz is supposed to report today.”

Shiro’s ears perk; it’s the first name he’s been given, besides Keith’s.  “Ulaz,” he tries.

“Yes, Ulaz.” 

The training room doors seal shut behind them.  Shiro follows, trying to keep pace with the longer strides.  Eventually they enter a room occupied by a simple control panel; a light blinks, emitting a soft chime, and as Shiro draws closer, a holographic screen appears.  A giant purple face is projected across it, complete with yellow eyes, pointed ears, and a white mohawk.

 _Okay,_ Shiro thinks, stepping slightly backwards.  _Things just got a bit weirder._

“Antok.  Keith,” acknowledges Ulaz.

“Ulaz,” answers Antok.  “It’s good to see you are well.”

“There’s not much to do here except identify the strongest to send into the arena for entertainment, and keep the weaker ones alive long enough to send to work,” explains Ulaz, lips thinning as he presses them together.  “But there are more urgent matters at hand.”

“What is it?”

“The Komar is closer to being realized than we’d estimated, I fear.”

Antok sucks in a breath.  “I’ll tell Kolivan.”

The transmission ends.  Antok turns on his heels.  After a beat, Shiro follows. 

“We’re done for the day,” Antok says over his shoulder as they walk.  “You are free to go, Keith.”

Some gut instinct tells Shiro that Keith would press the matter and insist on accompanying Antok wherever he’s headed next, but Shiro decides that possible future can play out another day.  So instead he nods and splits ways, heading back to Keith’s room.

There’s some kind of holopad on Keith’s desk; it responds easily to his touch.  At first the symbols swirl strangely, but then they resolve themselves into recognizable letters.

 _Who are you?  What is this place?_ Keith—because at this point Shiro assumes it was Keith—had written in his notebook back home.

 _I’m Shiro,_ he types out slowly, _and that was the Garrison._   _Are you an alien?_

 

*

 

They were switching bodies.

It was the only theory that made sense, as much as anything else did these days.  It explained why Keith woke up with weird gaps in his memory, strange looks from Antok, and entries in his holopad that he didn’t remember making.  And running underneath it all, a growing familiarity with other names and faces—faces that looked like _his,_ human, crowding the halls and teasing him and looking to him for guidance as they called a name that wasn’t his: _Shiro, Shiro, Shiro._

He’d thought it was a one-time thing, but as they continued to happen a few times a— _week,_ yes, that was the measurement, back on Earth—he and Shiro laid ground rules to help reorient themselves after each swap.  Or, well, one rule: they left notes for each other recapping whatever had happened during the day.

The rest was…flexible.

 

*

 

**Matt said he walked in and I was feeling up my own chest?**

_I had to confirm it was real._

**Funny.**

_Can we agree that you should avoid the training room at all costs whenever you’re in my body?  I don’t need Antok gloating about kicking my ass any more than he already does._

**Stop abusing my hangar privileges. I’m not supposed to be sneaking out on midnight hoverbike rides.  They’re unsanctioned and you’re going to get me in trouble.**

_But the desert’s so pretty at night.  We don’t have anything like that here._

**You live in the middle of a fiery blue giant and you’re telling me you’re fascinated by random canyons and sand?**

_Why does Volra always want to spend time with me now?  It’s kind of freaking me out._

**Not interested in her?**

_Not interested in girls._

**…Me, too.**

**If you were on Earth—**

_If I were on Earth?_

**Indulge me for a minute, here. If you were on Earth, what would you most want to do?**

_Race you._

**You’re not serious.**

_Scared you’d lose?_

**Please, I _know_ I would. That’s it? You wouldn’t want anything else?**

_I guess watching a sunset would be nice.  The sky’s different on Earth._

**There’s this lake. You have to drive a while to get to it, but you sit on the cliffs and watch the sun set over the water.  It’s a great spot.  Good for cliff-diving, too.**

_The great Takashi Shirogane, cliff-diving?_

**What’s that supposed to mean? You’ve been living as me for a while, now. You don’t seriously think I’m that uptight, do you?**

_I don’t know. I try to play it safe when I’m in your body._

**…That actually explains a lot.**

_Two months traveling through space while living off of freeze-dried peas sounds terrible._

**Hey, if you’re willing to conveniently drop off some alien tech on Earth to make the trip easier, be my guest.  Do you think we’ll keep swapping once I’m in space?**

_Not sure. Don’t worry, though. Your mission is safe with me._

**How far away from Kerberos is the Base?**

_Many, many lightyears._

_…You’d never see it in your lifetime.  Not without a wormhole._

**I wish I could.**

_But you have._

**Not as myself, though.  I feel like—it’d be different, through my eyes.  It’s amazing.  Our galaxy is huge, but the universe is even bigger, and I just wish I could see it all, you know?**

_~~I wish I could meet you~~ _

_Yeah._

_Yeah, I know._

 

*

 

It’s more seamless now, slipping into Keith’s life.

Ahead of him, Kolivan’s braid sways back and forth as they progress further down the stairs, the air growing cooler with each step. _2 days until Kerberos_ echoes in the back of Shiro’s mind, but he pushes it aside to focus on here and now, Keith’s Guardianship in preparation for Comet Day.  
  


**Comet Day?**

_There was this comet that was important to the Galra home planet for a long time before it was...destroyed.  Some of the details are murky—I’m not sure who knows the full story or how it’s changed, since it’s been 10,000 years, but I just know there was something special about it.  Might not be the same for this one, but we still celebrate._

**I bet it’ll be beautiful.**

_Yeah. Once in a lifetime._

 

At the base of the stairs, Kolivan stops.  Inscribed in the floor is a circular seal, the center overtaken by the Blade’s symbol.  Kneeling, Kolivan pulls out his blade, which transforms, the luxite molding itself thinner and longer, and inserts it into a slot in the ground. 

Immediately, the ground begins to rumble, the circle breaking into a series of interlocking plates that slide apart to unveil a hidden vault.  A faint golden glow rises from its depths, and Shiro leans over, trying to pinpoint its source.

“After you,” says Kolivan.

Inside the vault, the light grows brighter as Shiro turns in place. Row after row of canisters line the shelves, their contents pulsing strangely.  Something about it makes his voice drop to a reverent whisper: “What is all of this?”

“A record,” says Kolivan, moving to stand beside him.  “You know, of course, that quintessence contains the highest known energy per unit volume in the universe once it is refined.  But its raw form contains its true power: quintessence represents the purest embodiment of life.  It is what ties us to ourselves and to each other.

Zarkon and the Druids care only about weaponizing it; they care nothing for whom or what it comes from, as long as it can be used for their ends.  What you see here—since our beginning, each Blade has contributed a portion of quintessence, a symbol of dedication to our mission and a remnant that will last long after their physical bodies are gone. It is life, and it is precious.  _We_ do not forget that.”

“Where’s yours?”

“There.”  Kolivan points at a reliquary on one of the bottom ledges, dusty with age.  “And your mother’s is over there.”  His hand tracks higher, eyes fond yet sad.  “I remember them all.”

“And now it’s my turn.”

Kolivan dips his head.  “It is.”

Slowly, Shiro steps toward the dais, raising his hand and placing it on the device at its center, which reminds him of the plasma ball his eighth-grade science teacher brought to class one day, thin blue veins of electricity jumping against the glass.  A prickly feeling travels from his palm up his arm, spreading throughout his chest, and Shiro watches as the jar across him fills with gold—

— _the alien glow of the Blade’s greeting room. Arrayed around him, its members, tall and imposing. In his nose, the scent of the desert after a storm, and kneeling before him, a female Galra. Sharp eyes and chin, every facet carved to a point, but her voice achingly tender: “Save your tears, little one”_ —

Shiro staggers back, gasping.  The canister filled, Kolivan detaches it and walks over, placing it in his hands. 

A moment passes, long enough for him to regain his breath.  And then Shiro raises his head, soaking it all in to recount to Keith later: the glass-sharp chime as he slides his own jar into place alongside so many others, golden light diffusing throughout the whole room, a reminder that somewhere, in another pocket of the ever-expanding universe, other beings lived and loved and fought.  Kolivan’s hand on his shoulder, a steady weight, squeezing with a firmness that speaks of pride, of belief.

“Congratulations, Keith.”

 

*

 

_Don’t go—_

_—if you go, you’ll—_

_—easy on the thrusters, now—_

_Coming in for landing—_

_—these readings, they’re—_

_Matt! Mr. Holt!_

_—to the prison bays—_

_—please, we just want—_

_peace_

_._

_._

_._

*

This was not the body he remembered.

It came to him in fits and starts: a soreness blossoming across his shoulders, a sharp pain at his side.  Familiar aches, but he’d never felt them in Shiro’s body before, because they were battle wounds.

Which meant something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Gradually, the rest of it focused: the cuffs around his wrists, the heavy clomp of the escort on either side of him, the roar of a crowd growing louder in his ears.  Keith jerked back at the noise, horrified— _no, impossible—_ but the guard gripping his upper arm quickly yanked him forward.

Before them, the dark tunnel opened up into blinding light.

Around the arena, seats overflowed with spectators, and Keith, who had heard enough stories from Ulaz and was beginning to piece together where he was, swung his gaze over the crowd, caring only for one: Zarkon, reclining in his throne, Haggar at his side.  Anger burned in Keith’s gut; here he was, as close to the Empire’s heart as he’d ever be, and yet he was bound and powerless and wearing someone else’s skin.

As if sensing the malice emanating from below, Haggar turned, yellow gaze somehow crossing the distance so that it was as if she stood right before him, the threat of violence and something darker coiling between them. Keith broke eye contact, but it was too late—the chill had already set in, a snakelike whisper at the edges of his mind.

_I will make you suffer._

They undid his cuffs.  Shoved forward, he had time only to regain his balance, pride keeping him on his feet. The arena doors sealed behind him, trapping him in the dirt pit.  At the opposite end, another set of doors had closed.  Keith regarded his opponent:

Three sets of arms, for a total of six.  But reedy and unsteady, and wearing the same tattered prison clothing as Keith.

Confusion roiled in his mind.  Everyone knew Zarkon’s tastes: giant, hulking beasts against weaker prey.  Defeat seeded from the very beginning, the promise of panic and maybe a few desperate pleas for mercy, to be overcome by the stench of blood.  Two scrawny prisoners against each other could hardly be considered the usual entertainment.

_This wasn’t right._

He didn’t have time to process more.

Across the field, his opponent moved blindingly fast, a reckless ball of nerves.  They hit the ground, churning up dust, and then Keith’s instincts kicked in.  He didn’t have a weapon, but he didn’t need one; his hands found a rock, found ribs and bone and drove in, _hard;_ the creature above him howled, reeling back, and Keith seized the opening, no time to think, just the furious pump of blood in his veins, _watch out for the extra hand,_ snap the wrist backwards, another scream, arm raised—

At its height, he stopped.

He had killed before.  But it had always been justified by the pursuit of something greater— _an end to the Empire, to Zarkon’s madness—_ and it had been honorable, on his feet and with a blade, not a thrashing body pinned uselessly to the ground.  Not this senseless scrabble.  As he returned to himself, sweat dripping from his brow and into his eye, stinging as it mixed with the grime covering his face, he remembered: these were not his hands to stain.

He suspected that Shiro had felled some enemies already.  But something about the breathless pause in the arena, the way Haggar leaned forward in anticipation, told him that the previous situations had never been like _this_ : two desperate figures in the ring and everyone else taking bets on who would turn savage first, would shed himself in order to survive.

Keith dropped his hand and scrambled off, stumbling back.  His opponent struggled to his feet; the two of them stared at each other, at an impasse.

 _Finish it,_ came the crowd’s chant.

 _No,_ Keith thought fiercely.  _I won’t make him into a killer.  Not like this._

The next blow came from above.  Haggar had risen to her feet, a purple bolt arcing from her hands, and Keith cried out as it brought him to his knees, every nerve screaming in protest.

“Remember yourselves,” she hissed.  “Only one of you leaves alive.”  Her gaze flicked coolly to his opponent.  A glance.  A tip of the head.

“No,” started Keith, hoarse, “you don’t—”  But he caught the panicked look, and then suddenly there was pressure at his windpipe, choking.

The fight blazed through his bloodstream again as black threatened the corners of his vision.  His hands— _Shiro’s hands_ —flexed, trying to pry the fingers away from his throat.

Survival, Keith was learning, was a double-edged sword.  You cut yourself open on every life you cut down.

A final surge and he wrenched himself free, neck bruised but _alive, still, alivealivealive_ and burdened by the weight of what he was about to do, and furious at Zarkon and Haggar for orchestrating it, and now they were his—Shiro’s— _Keith’s_ hands throttling, two thumbs, _press_.  His shoulders shook.

“Make it quick,” the gladiator whispered beneath him.  The wild fear illuminating its eyes earlier had extinguished, leaving nothing but bleak acceptance. 

So Keith did.  

 

*

 

When Keith woke up, his cheeks were stained with tears.

 _Champion, champion, champion_ had continued ringing in his ears long after the body beneath him had stilled, long after he’d collected himself and stepped away, long after they’d marched him back to his cell.

It had been bare. Nothing for him to leave a note with, to inform Shiro of what had happened during his missing hours.

For once, Keith was grateful.

He didn’t want Shiro to remember.

 

*

 

“—okay?” finishes the voice, muffled as if heard through layers of water.

Shiro stirs, blinking slowly, unsure whether to trust his eyes.  _Stars._ Midnight blue sky.

He hasn’t seen those in a while.

“Lance!  Lance, I think he’s awake!” A bushy head comes into view, glasses winking in the moonlight.

“Oh, thank God,” this from a third member, hands releasing their grip on the hem of his vest.

Shiro swallows.  “Who—” 

“Pidge, Hunk, Lance,” is the rapid-fire response.  The one he assumes is Pidge draws closer, examining his pupils.  “How are you feeling?”

“Not the worse I’ve been,” offers Shiro, pushing himself up on his elbows.  He reaches up to touch his chest, recalling the heavy leather straps holding him down earlier, the Garrison medtechs’ refusal to listen.  “You guys busted me out?” 

“It was Lance’s idea,” blurts Hunk.  “But yes, er, we were involved.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You mentioned aliens,” interjects Pidge.  “And this thing called _Voltron._ Can you tell us more?” 

 _Pidge,_ Hunk murmurs gently, _give him some time to orient himself—_

“I was captured,” Shiro explains.  “During Kerberos.  I remember—there was an alien ship, but… the rest is spotty.  All I know is that Voltron is this extremely important weapon, and there are people after it—”

_Kolivan, there are rumors about the Blue Lion.  It’s on Earth._

_Keith, leave us._

_But—_

_Now._

“…ro? Shiro?” Pidge repeats, waving a hand in front of his face. 

“I… I just remembered something.” He raises his eyes, taking in his three saviors: curious, anxious, expectant.  “I’m going to need your help.”

 

*

 

It was impossible.

It was magic.

It was _real._

The Castle of Lions had been a bedtime story for as long as Keith could remember; part of Zarkon’s wave of destruction, swallowed alongside Altea and cast apart just like the Lions of Voltron. 

But here he was in its fabled halls.  Princess Allura and Coran, the last of their kind, were alive, woken from 10,000 years of sleep.

And the Blue Lion.

The Blue Lion had been retrieved.

There was something unsettling about it, though Keith couldn’t put his finger on why.  He’d been searching, too. Not in this body, but back in his own.  And while he hadn’t managed to locate the beast, he’d found the cave, and the markings, and even stranger, he’d seen Shiro, but not— 

Not the same one _._  

Keith flexed his right hand; the Galra tech responded.  _This_ was the reality, a space he inhabited, a body whose suffering he had felt.  Whatever he thought he’d seen—maybe that had been the dream.

It was getting harder to tell, these days. 

Either way, the integration of Galra weaponry with Shiro’s arm made one thing obvious.  Their two worlds, once so distant, had finally—perhaps inevitably—collided.

Keith surveyed the room, walking over to the notepad on Shiro’s desk.

Kolivan might very well punish him for this later, but it couldn’t be helped.

 _You’re part of the fight, now,_ he wrote. _Come find us soon._

Underneath, he left the coordinates to the Base.

 

*

 

Comet Day arrived with every ounce of celebration that Keith had expected. 

“Cheers,” Antok said, chuckling.  Someone had brought out the instruments, and a part of Keith thrilled at the sound of music—actual _music_ —being played.  A distant memory welled up: the faint scratch of a record, dusty curtains, a slant of sunshine.

“Keith.” A hand on his shoulder.  Relaxing into the touch, Keith turned to find Kolivan beside him.  “Happy Comet Day,” said their leader, raising an arm to gesture at the sky, and Keith sucked in a breath.  The fiery tail arced overhead, radiant against the layer surrounding their base, and Keith thought, again, of wishes and shooting stars.  His father’s raspy crooning and his mother’s smile and a life that could have been, somewhere without a war.

The thought cut short.

“Look!” someone shouted, as if they weren’t all already looking, transfixed and awestruck and realizing, too late, the change of trajectory, the comet splitting in two—a sword of flame, hurtling straight toward the base.

 

*

 

Strange, the things that grow familiar. Wormholes tearing open the fabric of space-time. The acrid burn of Nunvill. Allura’s voice, words edged with that lilting accent: _Rise and shine, paladins, another day of training lies ahead!_

Shiro climbs into bed, exhausted from the day’s work, and finds himself yearning—not for the first time—to wake up in another body.  He knows the Base’s layout now, Keith and Antok’s easy banter, the silent pride that enters the room whenever someone mentions the name Thace.  Some days, when his memory lapses and the Altean training bots get under his guard, Shiro thinks he might be a better Blade than paladin. 

So when he draws the blankets over his shoulders and closes his eyes, a part of him is already anticipating the switch, preparing to settle into it like a second skin.

Tonight, however, marks a first:  

He doesn’t dream.

 

*

 

The thing is, Shiro knows how it feels to miss people.  There isn’t a day that goes by without him thinking of Matt—not as he last saw him, frightened and hurt, but _happy,_ fawning over a collection of space rocks, pausing to wipe his glasses clean against the hem of his uniform. Or his mother, head bent over a mixing bowl full of rice, crushed sesame and vinegar scenting the air.

Missing someone he’s never met, though, is clumsier.  It means waking up in the middle of the night, a half-formed name on his lips. A strange hollowness, as if a chord, once struck inside him, has gone silent. 

Weeks pass, and still the switches do not resume.  The lines of Keith’s life, once superimposed upon his, begin to fade. _Except._

He still has the coordinates, slantwise and dark on the page.  Shiro runs his fingers over them so many times he begins tracing them in his sleep: ghostly imprints against the wall of his eyelids, floating.

He might not be able to trust his mind anymore, but he can trust these numbers.

He thinks.

 

*

 

In the blue glow of the communications room, Hunk looks at him, unsure.

“Did Princess Allura okay this?”

“I just need to confirm something,” evades Shiro.  “Before I bring it up to the rest of the team.”

Hunk opens his mouth as if to say more, then decides against it.  Shiro wonders if maybe he should have sought out Pidge instead, then quickly banishes the thought.  She’d have gone along, but she’d have also asked too many questions, and seeing as Shiro is just as at a loss for answers—well.

The screen in front of them remains blank.

“How long do these things normally take?” Shiro asks, surprising both Hunk and himself with the impatience creeping into his voice. 

Hunk glances at him sideways and hunches over, fingers poised above the keys.  “Give it a few more minutes, maybe?” 

The minutes crawl by.  Somewhere in the vast sprawl of space, his transmission wings its way through the stars and alights on a distant port, long gone cold. 

“Maybe we should try again—”

“I don’t think there’s anyone out there to receive this, Shiro,” Hunk says.  His voice remains level, but Shiro can sense some of the quiet force behind it.  _We should both get some rest_ hangs between them.  “What were you hoping to find?”

 

*

 

Allura studies the coordinates written on the sheet of paper in her hand.  Caution mixes with concern on her face, hesitant as she asks: “Where did you say these were from?”

“A dream,” answers Shiro.  It’s a half-truth, and possibly a selfish one.  But the Blade, if they can find them, will prove valuable allies, and Shiro clings to this as the overriding justification for his request.  “Or—more like a memory, I think.  These coordinates, they’re supposed to lead us to something called the Blade of Marmora.”

Coran and Allura exchange glances.

“I can’t say that name is familiar,” says Coran, stroking his chin. “But perhaps a quick scan of the records in the library…”

“Shiro.” Allura worries her lip.  “I hate to say this, but have you considered—”

“It wasn’t implanted,” interrupts Shiro, suddenly desperate.  “I know it sounds strange.  I don’t know how to explain this, but there are memories I have from before the Galra got their hands on me, and everything inside me is pointing here.  There are people out there who want to fight back against Zarkon, and this group is one of them.”

“The Castle is relatively secure,” points out Lance, coming to his aid.  “On top of that, we have four Lions.  I think we’ll be able to defend ourselves if things really come to a head.”

“I know it’s a risk,” says Shiro. “But I’m asking you to trust me, Princess.”

Blue eyes lock with his, probing.  In this clash of wills, Shiro knows that he’ll yield if Allura truly wishes it—she’s been fighting longer than they all have—but eventually her walls come down, lashes pale against her cheeks as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.  When she opens them again, the set of her shoulders is determined.

“All right,” she decides.  “Let’s pay this Blade of Marmora a visit.”

 

*

 

The visual, when they come to it, strikes him like a blow.  Shiro surges forward to the edge of his seat, nails digging into the armrests.  _It’s real,_ he thinks, but does not say aloud: the two black holes, fearsome in their emptiness, and, spinning between them, the pulsing surface of a star.

“Holy moly,” says Hunk, whistling lowly.

“Initiating communications,” announces Allura, all brisk business.  Shiro can detect the tension in her shoulders.  The Blade’s base is a random variable, a mystery that must be solved as soon as possible.  “I am Princess Allura of Altea, and this is the Castle of Lions. Requesting permission to establish contact.”

Silence.  Pidge shifts uneasily, and Allura looks over at him: “Shiro—”

“Just give them some time,” he says, voice tight.  Someone will recognize them, he knows it.  Keith—

Ten ticks become twenty, thirty.  Eventually, Shiro can no longer take it—he gets to his feet, unease swirling in the pit of his stomach.  _This isn’t right, something’s happened, I can feel it—_

“Shiro, are you okay?” asks Pidge.

“Something’s wrong.  We have to investigate or—or _do_ something—”

“One step ahead of you,” says Coran, bringing up a zoomed in version of the base in front of them.  “Sensors have revealed that there’s a pocket opening up; it’ll only remain that way for another varga though before it seals for two quintants.”

Allura bristles.  “There’s no way we can navigate the castle through that.”

“Maybe not, but a lion could,” suggests Lance.  He looks at Shiro.  “You and I could take Blue.”

It’s a small thing, but not lost on Shiro: the quickness to rally, to accept his judgment.  The thought warms his heart, even as it induces a slight pang of guilt.  Black Lion though he may be, the question remains his bed-warm companion: _am I making the right calls?_

_What am I getting us into?_

“I still don’t feel good about this,” says Allura.  “What if it’s a trap? Some sort of ambush?”

“We’ve come this far,” chimes in Pidge.  “At this point, it’s worth a shot.”

On the control orbs, Allura’s hands clench, briefly, before she nods.  “All right.  Be careful, you two,” she relents, voice brimming with reluctance.

Shiro touches his fingers to the back of her hand on the way out.  “We’ll be back soon, Princess,” he reassures, following Lance out the doors of the control room.  He fights to keep his pace at an appropriate clip, muscles singing with tension, resisting the urge to break into a run.

 _Patience yields focus,_ he tells himself, syncing his footsteps up with the beat of his heart.  The order brings him calm.

 

*

 

The path into the star is treacherous, but Lance navigates it with aplomb—a testament to the Garrison’s training after all, perhaps. They make it through the route Coran provided them just in time, the pathway sealing itself behind them with a blast of hot gas and plasma.

“Whew,” Lance exhales.  “That was close.”

“Look.” Shiro nods. “Up ahead.”

The giant asteroid looms before them, like an obsidian conch shell floating in space.  Its bottom half is pockmarked by two craters, which emit a soft, green glow.  Shiro frowns.  It’s less symmetric than he thought it would be, like a chunk has been taken out of the top half.

Blue lands, her claws scraping against the rocky surface as she bows her head and opens her mouth to let them out.  The atmosphere is bleak and gray, and Shiro smiles, understanding, now, Keith’s fixation with the desert— _the sky is prettier on Earth, you know._

“Hello?” Lance calls.  “Is anyone here?”

He moves ahead of Shiro to scout the area.  Shiro follows, half-attuned to his surroundings as he tries to construct a timeline in his head: _the last time we switched was right before Comet Day, which was…two weeks ago?_

Abruptly, Lance stops. Shiro nearly bumps against his shoulder, catching himself just in time.  “What—”

“Shiro, look.”

Following Lance’s finger, Shiro turns.  The asteroid face in front of them has been blasted away, nearly tunneled clean through; the hole gapes like a wound, scorch marks radiating from its mouth.  A hundred worst-case scenarios flash through his mind, but Shiro tamps them down, moving to inspect the damage more closely.

The marks are faded.  No scent colors the air.  Whatever blast happened here went cold a long time ago.

“Can you see what’s down there?” asks Lance, peering over his shoulder.

Metal walls.  Purple glow.  _Kolivan and Antok and—_

“It looks like an elevator shaft,” answers Shiro.  “I doubt it’s still functional though, after this.” He gestures around them.  “We could jetpack down.”

“Do you want to go first, or should I?”

“I’ll go.”  Shiro turns around, backing into the hole legs-first.  His foot hits a loose rock and it falls into the drop; both he and Lance tilt their heads, listening for some indication that it has hit the bottom.  The eventual clatter echoes up from the chasm, magnified by the enclosed space.

Lance whistles. “Well, this’ll be fun.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Shiro lets go, stomach bottoming out as he plummets down the chute.  The glow of his jetpack casts shadows against the walls, slowing his descent; Lance hops in shortly after.

At the base of the chute, light falls upon a mangled door, twisted pieces of metal on the floor.  They step across the remains, the elevator shaft opening up into a spacious hall, and it feels as if Shiro’s heart is thumping against the back of his ribcage, trying to force him in the other direction— _turn around, leave this place, go back, back, back_ —      

“What _happened_ here?” asks Lance, gaping.

Rubble litters the room, whole chunks of rock ripped from the walls and ceiling.  A giant fissure runs through the center of the floor.  Numbly, Shiro walks alongside it, trying to process.  Behind him, Lance emits a gagging noise; Shiro whirls around, rushing to his side.

“Lance, what’s wrong—”

“Shiro.” Lance gulps and takes a step back, shivering.  “I think that’s an arm.”

There, just peeking out from the wreckage.  Well-decayed and mostly bone, but recognizable nonetheless.  Bile rises in Shiro’s throat as he draws closer, crouching over it; the flagstones below it are stained.  The body long since liquefied, dried into the stone.

The observation, revolting as it is, makes Shiro pause.  It’s been dead longer than two weeks.  It has to have been, to look like this, and yet…       

It doesn’t make _sense._ Nothing does.  Not how they got here or what they’re looking at or—  

_Why are we here?_

The thought looms suddenly and Shiro crashes full-force into it, like a truck barreling into a concrete wall.  This strange asteroid, this alien base.  Why did he push so hard for this mission?  Hunk’s voice, probing: _What were you hoping to find?_  

Lance finds his voice again.  “Maybe we should go.”

 _Not yet_ , his body resists, limbs locking in place. There’s still something that needs to be done.  He came here for a reason.  Something important.  Some _one._

Why can’t he remember?

Shiro pries his helmet off, sucking in more air. His breaths pull tight at his chest.  The walls bulge inwards.  _Yes, Champion,_ an insidious voice whispers, curling around him like smoke.  _See how your pain makes the landscape unrecognizable.  How your mind is so easily warped._

_Go, forget this place._

_After all, how do you know if any of your memories are real?_

“No.” The word tears from him, weak and ragged.  They _are_ real.  They have to be.  He’s kept them close for so long, under lock and key—

_Locks. Keys._

The vault.  _A remnant that will last long after our physical bodies are gone_ —

“Shiro, where are you going?”

His feet echo against the flagstones as he turns the corner, thoughts spiraling out ahead of him: stairs and darkness and a golden glow.  Pressure builds behind his eyes, part panic and a mounting sense of grief, but he can’t succumb to it just yet.  To grieve is to give memory to the dead, and Shiro can’t do that properly right now, not with this haunting suspicion that he’s forgotten something vital.

The temperature drops as Shiro continues to descend.  A bead of cold sweat collects at his temple, drips.

And then, at last, he is staring at the jigsaw markings of the floor, the circular seal inscribed in stone, bearing the Blade’s insignia.  Eyes seeking as he walks the perimeter of the floor.  And there, near the base of the stairs, barely noticeable unless one knew to look: a slot, almost like one designed for a large coin.  Or a blade.  Beside it, a small hollow—made, perhaps, for a stone.

The lump in his throat thickens, and Shiro reaches up out of habit, fumbling for his necklace, hand closing around the pendant.  Squeezes it, expecting to anchor himself to the sensation of cool, polished stone.

It hisses against his palm instead and Shiro yelps, letting go, thankful that the gloves of his suit have protected him from any potential burn.  He hadn’t noticed its heat until now, but he reaches for the string of the necklace and yanks it over his head, putting distance between it and his skin. There, spinning slowly before him, the deep purple rock has brightened, pulsing faintly in the dark.

“Shiro, what is going _on?_ ” pants Lance, having finally caught up, as Shiro bends and places the pendant in the hole on the ground, hoping. 

A rumble and the floor groans open, like the gasp of a dying man’s final secret.

 

*

 

 _I’ve been here before,_ Shiro thinks, turning in place.  Golden canisters line the shelves, stacked floor to ceiling.  Somewhere up above, Lance keeps watch.  Entering the vault had seemed an undertaking best done alone—there’s something almost sacred about the space, and the hairs on Shiro’s arm prickle. 

He finds himself drawn to one jar in particular.  There’s nothing to distinguish it from the others, and yet his arm slides it from its place, the capsule heavy in his hands.  Shiro turns it back and forth, searching for a way to open it.  Fingers sliding along the grooves— _locks, keys—_

**_Keith._ **

Like a bolt slid aside, a door thrown wide open.  Shiro jerks in shock from the force of it, nearly drops the canister but catches it just in time, the room spinning around him like a tape being rewound.  Hallways and mirrors and training rooms, dark eyes and a switchblade smile, cutting him to the core.  And then the smile warps, turns accusatory: _You forgot, Shiro._

 _How could you forget?_  

A barrage of images and faces, too many for him to process.  A litany of names. Buried in secrecy, no one left to mourn. 

 _Stop,_ Shiro begs, sinking to his knees and squeezing his eyes, tries to rationalize with himself: _You don’t know that they’re all dead,_ but if not then why the broken link, why the momentary lapse in memory—

If they are, then here, in his hands, is all that is left.

The lid finally comes free.  He stares down at the golden liquid, Kolivan’s words ringing in his ears.  _Quintessence is what ties us to ourselves and to each other._

Maybe…

Spurred by the fragment of memory he had the first time he was in the vault, Shiro takes his gloves off and dips a finger into the quintessence.  The liquid leaves a tingling sensation on his skin, and he brings his hand closer to his nose, startled to find that it smells like—

_Like the desert after it rains._

There’s a tug against his mind, like his bond with Black but different, somehow.  And maybe it’s hubris or desperation to think he can change anything, but what is he if not a vessel filled with grief and too many questions?  The quintessence touches his tongue, some final act of communion.  The dull buzz in his head, for a brief moment, goes quiet.

And then, suddenly, everything shifts.

 

_._

_._

_._

Tendrils of light, golden and spiraling through the air.  Knotted and curled and too many to keep track of but one, vibrating slightly, like a piano string right after being struck.  Hesitantly, Shiro reaches out, and it warps toward him, sparks leaping toward his fingertips like lightning finding ground—

 

*

 

A room and a dark-haired boy, sitting quietly on the carpet.  The scratch of a record player in the background.  A man, broad-shouldered, scar across his right eyebrow rising slightly as he crouches before the boy.

“Time for bed, Keith.” 

Violet eyes, raised.  A tilt of the head.  “How long are you going to keep the music on?”

Keith’s father places a hand on his head, ruffling his hair.  Smiles honey-slow, all faith and warmth.

“Until your mother comes home.”

 

*

 

New place. New faces.  Halls that echo too loudly when Keith runs through them, nothing like the muffled carpet of home.  A sky he can’t run out to greet without being suited up, first.  His mother crouched before him, this time; Kolivan in view just over her shoulder, silent.

“You’ll be safer, here.  Hidden.”

 

*

 

Masks and missions, training rooms.  A Keith who is older, now, and knows how to mark the passage of time in space.  Knows when ten quintants is ten too many.  And yet young enough, still, for there to be a wobble in his voice when he asks: “She’s not coming back, is she?”

Thace reaches out, steadying him.  Knowledge or death, and the first piece of knowledge every Blade confronts is this: all things must die.

Kolivan’s face is grave, but he holds the knife out gently.  Waits until Keith’s fingers are curled around it before letting go.

“She wanted you to have this after she was gone.”

 

*

“Let me go.”

“Keith, what you are proposing—”

“I’m the only one who can do it.  If it’s on Earth, I’ll blend in. I’ll find the Lion and I’ll bring it back.  We can hide it here.”

“Even if you were to find it, what makes you think you’d be able to pilot it?”

“It’s worth a shot.”

“And if you don’t locate it?  Or if you get stranded and Zarkon eventually sets his sights on Earth?  There are only so many of us, Keith.  Let someone else take this mission.  You are young, still, and strive to prove too much, and I fear it clouds your judgement.”

" _You’re_ the one whose judgement is clouded, Kolivan!  And I get it, I do.  You all are the closest thing I have to family, and I know you want to protect me, but I’ve been getting these—these visions, lately, and I understand things now, more than I ever did before.  How important this is, for everyone.  So you have to let me try, Kolivan.  Please.”  

*

 

“Kolivan worries about you.”

In the communications room, Ulaz’s face looks down from the screen, concerned.  Keith crosses his arms and leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on the control panel.

“I know,” he sighs, face tilted upward in appeal.  “I just—” His brows knit together, struggling, before he reaches some internal decision.  “Ulaz, there’s something else I’ve been wondering about.  Lately, I’ve been having these dreams, except it’s _more_ than that, it’s like— like I’m living in someone else’s body, for a time.  And I don’t know what’s happening to me or if I’m going crazy.”

Ulaz’s lips press into a thin line as he considers.  “There are… theories.  About the true nature of quintessence, and the universe.  Talk of different realities and timelines… so it would not be the strangest thing I’ve heard, this link you have.  Perhaps there is something shared in your quintessence.  I’m sorry I can’t offer any other insight.”  Here, his expression flickers briefly into one of distaste.  “The rest is Druid territory.”

Keith smiles.  “It’s fine, Ulaz.  It’s something.”

“My transmission time is nearly up,” says Ulaz.  “Give Kolivan my regards; tell him all goes well here.  And Keith?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful on your trip to Earth.”

 

*

 

They’re at the Garrison. 

They’re at the Garrison because it’d be hard for Keith not to stumble across it eventually, searching in the desert for the Blue Lion, and because only Keith would have the skill or gall to slip onto the premises of a military base.  The sun is dying against the cliffs, painting the red sands even redder.  Keith stands with his fingers curled around the chain-link fence, peering into the facility. 

The memory draws Shiro closer, until he’s at Keith’s shoulder.  Up close, the fragmentary nature of these visions becomes more evident; focusing too hard on Keith’s features blurs his vision, like staring at the sun for too long.  But the expression on Keith’s face—that’s clear.  Confusion, disbelief, and the barest touch of wonder. 

Shiro follows Keith’s gaze.  The chain-link fence separates them from a large courtyard, one that Shiro remembers well.  Cadets lined up shoulder to shoulder, trained not to tug at their collars or wipe their brows despite the discomfort.  Listening as a newly-minted pilot officer walks from row to row, calling out drills. 

And then the officer breaks from the group—to take a breath, to get a drink of water, he doesn’t know, and Shiro sees— 

Himself, before everything. 

Dark hair. Olive green uniform.  There are a few pins and medals missing from his lapel—awards yet to come—which means this moment must have happened at least three _years_ ago, and yet.

He hadn’t known Keith then. 

Before his eyes, his past self turns, looking startled when he catches sight of Keith.  A moment, and his features reconfigure themselves into something more collected; he closes the distance between them in a few brisk strides. 

“Excuse me, are you lost?” 

Keith sucks in a breath.  “It’s— _you._ But how—?” 

“I’m sorry, but this is a restricted area.” Shiro reaches into his pocket, pulling out a palm pad.  “I can get you an escort back into town, but you shouldn’t be here without a permit—”  

“Wait.” Keith presses forward, rattling the chain-link slightly.  The confusion has been replaced by something different, a realization fever-tinged with urgency.  “You don’t need to call anyone. I’ll leave, just—Shiro—”

Shiro’s head snaps up, at that.  “Have we met?” he asks, suspicious.

Keith evades, too desperate to convey his message.  “Listen to me, the Kerberos mission…don’t go.  If you’ll go, you’ll—”

Shiro frowns.  “There hasn’t been any announcement of a mission to Kerberos.”

“Not yet, but there will be, and you’ll want to go.  But there are things out there that I can’t—”  Keith’s voice breaks, tumbling into the space between them.

“I know you don’t believe me,” he says, after a long pause.  “But it would make me feel better if you had this anyways.  It might help you, later.” Something small and dark drops through fence between them, a jewel catching the light, and Shiro is reeling because he has no memory of this interaction, but _that stone_ —

Keith takes a few steps backward.  The Shiro from three years ago stares down at the smooth object in his palm.

And then Keith is pulling a hood up and turning around, ready to flee into the approaching dusk.  Something inside him unhinges.  

“Wait! What’s—what’s your name?”

A smile cast over his shoulder, like a sliver of moonlight through a cloud.

“Keith.”

 

*

 

Back to the Blade and their base.  Keith returns frustrated from his trip to Earth, having discovered a series of strange markings in some desert cave, but no Lion.  Comet Day arrives, and Shiro has a foot on either side of the chasm, now, is starting to make sense of the gap of three years that separates them:

On Earth, Takashi Shirogane’s head hits the pillow.  He does not dream, yet, of Kerberos, but his mind is still on the sky.

On a distant rock floating through space, Keith waits for the comet to strike.  And then it does, blinding and brilliant, tearing through the atmosphere.  Terrible and beautiful and—

Light.

So much light.

 

_._

_._

_._

 

He wakes up gasping.

The room comes into focus, all golden glow. 

Reaching up to touch his nose, his fingers find scar tissue.  Keith blinks, raising his hands. 

One Galra metal, one flesh and bone.  Both of them tremble, slightly, as he takes a single, shuddering breath. 

_I’m alive. I’m alive I’m alive I’m alive—_

“Shiro?” Lance’s voice.  Lance’s face, peering over the edge.  “Are you okay?  You’ve been down there for a while.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Keith says hoarsely.  He turns on his jetpack, vaulting upwards.  Lance takes a step back when he lands, squinting at him.

“Are you sure, you look—hey, wait, Shiro, where are you going?”

Keith has broken into a run, heading back up the stairs.  Part of him already knows what he’ll see, a vague memory of ash and heat and _death,_ but he needs to confirm it with these eyes, needs to know how it all ends.  And if he’s _here,_ then what does that mean for Shiro?

“I have to go,” Keith says, insides unspooling, a thread tied to someone else’s life.  “There’s somebody I need to find.”

 

*

 

_Run, Shiro._

The Base is still intact.  

He comes to in Keith’s room, to the sound of halls bustling with activity.  For a second, Shiro just lies there, uncertain whether to trust the heartbeat in his chest.  But with every second, it grows louder, each pulse like the tick of a clock.

_Save them._

_Chain of command._

_Find Kolivan._

The thoughts send him out into the corridor, where he bumps into Antok.  Shiro catches Antok by the sleeve, trying to keep the panic from his voice when he asks: “How much time until the comet?”

“Four vargas.” Antok frowns, leaning a bit closer.  “Keith, you look unwell.” 

“I need to talk to Kolivan.”

“He was aboveground, last I heard.  Overseeing some repairs to the outer wall.”

Shiro nods.  “Thank you.”

Antok looks as if he wants to press the issue but says nothing more, continuing on his way.  Shiro waits for the footsteps to fade before he starts walking, each echo against the tiles an offering to the past.

 

 

*

 

**Through the Base, now.  Nod when you’re nodded to, no need to spread any panic yet.**

_—up the stairs, through the demolished meeting room, the elevator shaft in shambles—_

**Just you in the elevator, on your way up.  Activate your suit’s mask.**

_—don’t think about what happened here, put your helmet back on, push off the walls, use your jetpack—_

**You’ll tell Kolivan what you’ve seen, and you’ll evacuate the Base.  Everyone will live.  They have to.**

_—how many homes have you lost—_

The elevator finally grinds to a halt, the ceiling above him sliding open to reveal sky.  Shiro steps out, gaze swinging wide around the craggy rock, but Kolivan is nowhere to be found.

( _Keith emerges to a ruined landscape.  The desolate remains of a place once considered a stronghold, once considered safe._ )

He takes a few steps, calling out halfheartedly.  Antok must have been mistaken; most likely Kolivan is still somewhere belowground, overseeing the final details for tonight’s celebration.

( _He needs to leave. Away from this rock.  But something tugs at him, drawing him forward.)_

Twilight—or, at least, as close to what passes as twilight here—winging its way across the sky.

( _There are certain places.  Between dawn and day, perhaps, or dusk and night…between people, if they are ready for it and the time is right, where maybe, impossibly, the veil between worlds might lift.  Consider this: in some alternate universe, some other time, might someone be standing in the very spot you are, now?)_

He turns.

 

*

 

Shiro has imagined this moment.  On Earth, in his small room at the Garrison.  In a Galra cell.  None of it prepared him for this.

This: the jolt back into his own body.  This: the dryness in his mouth, the tremble in his hand when he reaches up and Keith— _Keith—_ meets him halfway, palm to palm.  Solid.  _Alive._

“You’re really here,” he croaks, hoarse. 

“Thanks to you.”  Up close, the angles of Keith’s face are softer.  There’s still a fighter’s stance to him, an ingrained alertness.  Keith’s dark eyes trace over him, taking him all in.  And Shiro does the same.  He wants to tuck his fingers around the base of Keith’s head and hold him close, spirit them away somewhere safe.  He wants a thousand things too big for this moment.  He wants more time.

“I hoped, but I wasn’t sure.  I _forgot_ about you, Keith.  There were times when I thought… I thought that maybe it was all in my head, just another one of Haggar’s tricks—”

“ _No._ ” The space between them finally collapses; Keith surges forward to grip him fiercely, one hand against the side of his helmet, the other wrapped around his right arm.  It’s right at the spot where, underneath his armor, his human skin gives way to Galra metal, and Shiro shivers, wonders if Keith’s placement was intentional.  Here is someone who knows his body in ways few others do—in ways he’s let nobody in, since the incident.

“You’re here now, Shiro.  You’re safe.”

_Safe. Save. I can save him._

“But you aren’t.” Shiro swallows, laying a hand over Keith’s.  “Keith, listen to me, you don’t have much time.  The comet headed your way is going to destroy this place.”

“I know.” 

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.”

Keith shakes his head.  “Don’t apologize.  I didn’t… I wanted you to stay on Earth.”

“That’s right,” Shiro remembers.  “You tried to warn me. I didn’t recognize you back then, but if I had—if I’d known…”

Keith smiles. Slow as a sunrise, bittersweet. “I have a feeling you wouldn’t have listened even if you did know me.  And if you’d held yourself back—I’d have hated myself for it.  You were always meant to fly, Shiro, I just…” He trails off, splaying his fingers against Shiro’s chest. The touch burns through his armor like a brand, Keith’s voice a low fire when he says: “I just hate that you got hurt.”

“Hey,” Shiro says, bringing his forehead to rest against Keith’s, nudging gently.  “I got what I wanted, in the end.  I got to see the Base with my own eyes.  I got to meet you.”

That earns him a smile.  A real one, this time, knife-sharp. The promise of things to come. “Don’t go too soft on me, Shiro.  I’ve seen how hard you worked your cadets.”

In a kinder world, Shiro would take off his helmet.  He’d lose the air in his lungs not to an unforgiving atmosphere, but to the press of Keith’s mouth.  Instead, he settles for only imagining the touch of skin.

Unbidden, a memory arises.  An old lecture on gravitational time dilation, sketches of the curve light follows between two points.  An early exercise in longing: how maybe if you wanted something with enough force, the universe might be bent to your will. 

Maybe, Shiro considers, all the physics and astronomy he’d learned had been to prepare him for the simple gravity of this: two bodies, arching toward each other in the dying light.

He pulls back, just a fraction.  “We should write our names on each other.  So we don’t forget, this time.”

Keith’s mouth quirks.  “Did you bring a pen?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” he answers, hand going to the belt of his suit, finding the special pen Pidge had designed.  Keith watches him, curious and impossibly fond, and it strikes Shiro that they’ve done this all backwards.  They should have exchanged names first.  And there would have been time, afterward, to talk of other small things, if this had been a true first meeting.  But when you had been connected the way they had been, had lived through what they’d lived through—what is there left to say?

One thing.  A weight he’s carried across half the universe.  Shiro writes it on the left palm of Keith’s suit, curling Keith’s fingers around it to hide it.  The pen trades hands, its tip poised above Shiro’s glove before Keith pauses, looking up at him.

“Shiro, in case we don’t see each other again—”

“We will.” Shiro cuts him off, startling himself with the intensity of it.  “That’s the whole point of this, isn’t it?  So we know whom to search for.”

Keith is quiet, considering.  He seems to reach some internal decision, jaw set, and when he meets Shiro’s eyes again he’s a comet of his own, blazing. “Still. You should know.  I lo—”

The pen clatters to the ground. 

 

*

 

Time rushes back with terrifying force.

Numbly, Shiro stares at the empty space before him.  Lance’s presence registers dimly in the back of his mind: a hand placed on his arm, a few words, unintelligible.

“…left me back there.” Lance shakes him gently.  “Shiro? Are you all right?” 

“There was someone here.”  He picks up the pen, his other hand clenching into a fist.  “Someone I—”

The words lodge in his throat.  Fear claws its way up from his chest instead, choking him, and Shiro fumbles for a face, a name to hold on to. 

 _Nothing._ Like a tape being rewound and then winking out of existence.  And he _hates_ it, how permeable his mind is, how something so important can just leak out of him, evaporating into air. 

“Okay, buddy, you’ve had enough,” Lance says with sudden firmness, one arm braced against his back.  “We’ve seen all we can.  We should go back to the ship.”

 _Compromise._ Another lecture on leadership from the Garrison: _know when to yield, and how to do it gracefully._ Funny, how he can remember something from years ago, and yet the past ten minutes slip out of his grip.

Shiro takes a deep breath.  _I’m sorry._     

“Okay,” he finally concedes.

It feels like letting go.

 

*

 

Keith ran.

Down the halls, like a bullet exiting its chamber, single-purposed.  All the while, a name repeated under his breath.  _Shiro._   If he formed his mouth around it enough times, maybe it would stay.

He burst into Kolivan’s room.  Kolivan turned, eyebrows raised and mouth open; it was the first time Keith had ever managed to surprise him, but Keith had no time to appreciate it. 

“Kolivan,” he started, heart pounding.  “We have to evacuate.”

Kolivan frowned, clasping his hands behind his back and moving closer.  “Slow down, Keith.  What’s gotten into you?” 

He didn’t know how to phrase it without sounding desperate or crazy, and suddenly Keith ached for his parents, for someone else to take the reins and assure that everything would be okay.  _I was born into this fight—I’m not sure I’d recognize anything else,_ Antok had said, and Keith understood it, now.  Life as a fight that always found you, in the end.

“I’ve had visions,” he tried to explain.  “I don’t know how.  But that comet today isn’t just going to pass us; it’s going to break apart and destroy everything.  We have to leave.”

Kolivan stared him down.  In the year-long pause that followed, Keith wondered.  Was Kolivan remembering the Galra home planet, another world ravaged by a comet’s wrath?  Once more, the other part to his heritage made itself known, a story Keith still knew only in bits and pieces.

When Kolivan spoke, his decision took Keith by surprise.  Another thing to learn.  Another hard-fought lesson in loss.  But it made sense, given the Blade’s history: a ragtag bunch of rebels trying to carve a place for themselves to exist.  The idea that _home_ , in the end, was not any planet or country or base, as Keith had still believed, despite everything—but, rather, the blood you poured into each other.  Bonds of the unbreakable kind.

“Tell everyone to gather,” said Kolivan.  “We fly out together.”

 

*

He let Antok pilot so that he could look back.

The base seemed so unassuming from above.  Barely more than a craggy rock floating in the depths of space.  But he’d lived a whole life in its cocoon: ran laughing through corridors, wiped blood from his mouth, tended to his wounds.  The loss twisted, a knife in his gut.

“There are other outposts,” Antok said.  “We will begin again.”

Yes. They would rebuild.  And Keith would keep an eye out for—

He paused.  In the haste to evacuate, he’d abandoned his recitation.  The name eluded him, but that didn’t matter, because it was written on his hand—

He uncurled his fingers slowly.  And then snorted, vision blurring: _you idiot. How am I supposed to find you with this?_

Neat, loping letters, as familiar and intimate as his own.  A memory, burning across the center of his palm.

 

_I love you._

 

*

_._

_._

_._

 

_4 deca-phoebs later_

_._

_._

_._

 

The Galra battle cruiser’s walls glow a faint purple as he sneaks through them.  The mission is simple, straightforward: get the data, get the worm planted in the servers, get out.  Keith has successfully executed two of the three steps, headed toward one of the pod bays for extraction. 

Footsteps sound around the corridor; he presses himself against the wall, one hand straying to the knife at his belt.  The rhythm is off—not the measured hurry of Galra sentries.  Risking a peek, he catches a glimpse of white armor, a helmet edged in black.

Keith frowns.  _Interesting._

 _Antok is going to hate me for this,_ he considers.

He follows the strange figure anyways.  Left, right, left.  It stops in front of a set of hangar doors, sealed shut. The stranger seems to be waiting for some sort of signal; sure enough, it comes, the metal portal opening wide of its own accord.

 _They must have planted a hacker,_ Keith thinks. What kind of operation is this? 

He barely manages to slip in, climbing the rafters for a better vantage point. Once he's tucked himself securely out of sight, he looks down.

_It can't be._

Nestled in a blue orb, red and regal, like something from a dream. Eyes that, even dulled, hint at some mystical sentience.

“Keith.” Antok’s voice crackles through his earpiece.  “Where are you?”

“Change of plans.  Antok, I’ve found the Red Lion.”

“Are you sure?”

"Of course I am," Keith snaps. "It's right in front of me. Listen, do you have the particle barrier grapplers?"

"Yes, but if we attach it to this pod then we'll cut our speed and maneuverability in half. We've got to come back for it when we have a bigger ship."

"We won't have the element of surprise, then," argues Keith. "We can't just let it stay here with Zarkon's forces."

"Kolivan would want—" But Keith isn't listening to what Kolivan would want, because below him, the figure places a hand against the Lion's particle barrier. Keith holds his breath. _Could it be—_

It ripples, slightly, but does not yield.

At the same time, a shout goes up. The hangar doors slide open, Galra sentries spilling through. The figure dodges a gun blast, right hand firing up purple as he strikes at the nearest soldier, sending sparks flying.

The smart strategy, Keith knows, would be to wait things out. Let the two sides go at it and then steal away. Kolivan has told him more than once that being a Blade isn't necessarily about being the hero of the moment; it's about the long game.

But neither can he turn away from someone in need. Resolved, Keith pulls the knife from his belt, leaping into the fray.

It's a blur of luxite against armor. Duck, parry, slash, part of a dance he's mapped the steps of ten times over. What's new, though, is his partner—at one point, they end up face to face, a glowing hand poised right at his neck, ready to cut.

Up close, Keith finally gets a good look at the figure's face. A man; a _human._ Strong-jawed, with dark eyelashes and a wicked scar across the bridge of his nose, faded.

"Who _are_ you?" the man demands.

"Your ally," says Keith. The " _for now_ " remains in his head. "Watch out." He throws his blade, impaling an oncoming soldier, before sidestepping the man and surging forward to retrieve his weapon, ready for more. And it's not usually in his nature to rely so heavily on someone to protect his blind side, but necessity forces them closer together, until they're back to back.

There are too many of them. _Think, Keith, think._ His gaze travels the room, searching.

 _Aha._ Reckless, perhaps, but Antok is on his way for extraction; hopefully nothing goes too wrong.

"Grab on to something!" he instructs, wrapping one hand around his blade and digging it into the nearest surface. With the other, he slams the giant red button on the control panel. An even louder siren starts up, the airlock opening at the end of the hall.

The Galra soldiers are wrenched from their feet, sucked into the void of space. The man goes flying, too, but Keith catches him at the last minute, arm nearly jerked from his socket. It leaves him unable to reach for the lever to close the airlock again, every muscle screaming with the strain of holding them in place.

"Antok," he gasps through gritted teeth. "I need your help, _now._ "

"I'm on my way. Stay where you are."

"Easier said than done."

The man looks up at him, then. Their gazes hold. There's fear written across his features, but a grim acceptance, too, like he's no stranger to the prospect of death. Unwittingly, Keith's heart squeezes; he tightens his grip around the man’s hand.

_Come on, Antok, any time now—_

The panel keeping them in place gives way. His knife pulls free of the weakened metal, and then they're tumbling, head over heels over head, spinning blindly through the stars, and Keith's had this nightmare before, has to remind himself to breathe slow, his suit will protect him, Antok will come, _I don't want to die, not yet, not like this, there's still so much I need to do_ —

Lights, yellow. A roar, shaking him from the inside out. A series of spiraling visions, and then the Red Lion bursts free from the belly of the Galra ship, terrifyingly beautiful. Catching them in her jaws. 

He crashes into the pilot seat, the man tossed somewhere behind him on the floor. The cockpit lights up, dashboard humming with a red energy, and Keith is back in the vacuum of space, suddenly, all the air sucked out of his lungs. He's heard the legends. He knows what this means.

 _Are you sure?_ he hesitates, hand hovering over the controls.

A presence nudges at his mind.  Images of an Altean man, pale green crescent markings under deep blue eyes.  Visions of _himself,_ in the Blade’s training room, knocked down.  Rising, again and again and again. _Yes,_ says the Lion, warmth flowing over the newly established link between them.  _You will be good for us.  Our right hand._

Behind him, the scarred man sits up, groaning.  Keith hands Red over to her own reins and moves to the man's side, helping him to his feet.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” The man puts a hand to his head.  “Where are we?”

“The Red Lion.” 

The man’s eyes widen, gaze sweeping around the cabin.  “Then that must mean…you’re its paladin.  I’m Shiro.  I’m a paladin of Voltron, too.” 

 _Paladin of Voltron._ So the rumors that they've been gathering are true. The universe's greatest hope, on its way to being reassembled.

"I'm Keith," he says, lowering the cloaking on his mask and flipping down his hood. 

Shiro jerks back at his unveiling. "You're... human?" 

"I look it, don't I?"

"Looks can be deceiving."

Keith tilts his head. Shiro is taller than him, with a certain air of authority. There’s a tiredness, too; one borne of constantly being on guard, unsure whom to trust.

"We're on the same side," Keith reassures.

Shiro stiffens at his words before relaxing, slowly.  Dark gray eyes rove over Keith’s face, searching for something. A clue, or a memory. His gaze falls to the knife at Keith's belt, holds fast.

"That symbol... I've seen it before."

Keith pulls out his knife, holding it between them. "This? It's the mark of the Blade of Marmora."

"The Blade of Marmora," Shiro murmurs under his breath. " _The Blade of Marmora is with you._ " He hesitates. "We've never met. Have we?"

 _I would've remembered someone like you,_ Keith wants to say. There's a gap, something unspoken between them; that scar across Shiro's face, like a lightning flash of memory: _I'm sorry it took me so long._

Keith shakes his head, clearing it. "No, we haven't."

Shiro swallows, nodding. "That makes sense."

"Shiro?" A voice crackles through Shiro's helmet. "Shiro, are you all right?"

"Princess." Shiro glances at Keith, turning his body slightly away to take the call. "Yes, I'm all right. I'm with the Red Lion, I just... need a few minutes to sort something out." The communication drops, the full force of his attention back on Keith, and Keith braces himself, knowing what Shiro will ask.

 _Paladin of Voltron._ A chance to strike at the Galra Empire head-on. No more hiding.

No more Blade.

"It's a lot to ask," Shiro opens, studying him carefully. "The Red Lion has chosen you, it's true. But this will only truly work if you choose her—choose _us—_ too."

The words jolt him back to his first Trials.  _Knowledge or death. Paladin or Blade._

_Choose, Keith.  Choose._

There’s so much he doesn’t know.  Who the other paladins are, and if they stand a chance.  Why, the longer he looks at Shiro, the bigger this impossible ache opens inside him.  Something strange is happening to him—a chord struck in the wrong key.  Who is this man, beneath the suit?

 _You can tell a lot about someone from the way they stand._ Kolivan’s words. Keith’s eyes, assessing.

Wide stance, but without the intention of intimidating.  Instead, an openness.  Straight spine.  Shoulders that have borne the weight of so much, and yet part of Keith knows that they will continue to carry more.  That if he were to tuck his face in the crook of this man’s neck, he could bury a laugh there and it would be safe. And maybe, in some alternate timeline or universe, he does.

Maybe, if he’s lucky, it’s this one.

“Will you join us?” Shiro asks, full of naked hope.

Here are all the ways they do not meet.  Shiro does not go to Kerberos, or Keith never leaves Earth.  The Base crumbles or the Champion falls, or Keith gets to the belly of the Galra ship too late.  Red refuses to open her jaws.  Shiro forgets the coordinates.  Here are all the ways they lose each other: to fire, to magic, to betrayal, to other people.

And then there is the one:

Keith reaches across the gap between them, fingers curling around Shiro’s forearm.  Not friends or lovers or fellow paladins, yet—just two people in the quiet of space.  Breath and bone and skin.  Untold miles behind them, still more left to go.

“Yes,” Keith finally says, and the universe condenses down to a single point.  The air made thin between them.  So thin that it seems as if he can see right through it: to cliffs painted red by sunset, a head thrown back in laughter, a past and future yet to come. 

The entirety of him hums, like a note made right.   

“I’m all in.”

_._

_._

_._

_Here when I say “I never want to be without you,”_  
_somewhere else I am saying_  
_“I never want to be without you again.”_  
_And when I touch you_  
_in each of the places we meet_  
_in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying_  
_and resurrected._  
_When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,  
_ _in each place and forever._

 

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [Tumblr!](http://amillionsmiles.tumblr.com)
> 
>  **EDIT 11/1:** now with [art](https://v-0-3.tumblr.com/post/167033261222/here-i-have-two-hands-and-they-are-vanishing-the) and it is drop-dead gorgeous so please check it out and give the artist some love !!! <3


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